


Sweet Nothings

by JoJo



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s04e22 Sweet Revenge, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/pseuds/JoJo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch has a choice to make: an evening out whispering sweet nothings, or an evening in talking complete nonsense</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Nothings

**Author's Note:**

> posted to BCL July 2006
> 
> another post-Sweet Revenge tale - this one featuring a favourite trope of mine: character out of his gourd

"You've arrived at an interesting time," said one of the nurses. Her name was Jane. 

Hutch stood at the station sorting his thoughts, a hotch-potch of details and conversations, flitting through his mind like bats in a cave. 

"A bad time," added another nurse, who was unfamiliar. She had watched him suspiciously all the way up the corridor from the elevator. 

"Well," he said, "I won't be staying. I was just passing. Got a date." 

He smiled modestly as if they had just admired his crisp new shirt and sniffed appreciatively at his aftershave. "She's waiting down in the lobby," he added, just to prove the temporary nature of his visit, and patted the wad of magazines under his arm. "I brought him in some pictures of cars." 

"Maybe tomorrow," said the unfamiliar nurse. 

There was a slightly disapproving silence. 

"So... what's the story?" Hutch asked. He had felt his heart gallop slightly, as if it was independently aware of a problem he had not yet been told about. 

"He's had a tough day," Jane admitted. "If you're going in, you need to take it easy. What the doctors want more than anything right now is for him to sleep. But he's in a bit of a spin... not coping with all the meds. You'll find he's talking a lot of nonsense." 

A hopeful smile curled the edge of Hutch's mouth. That didn't sound so bad. His heart, though, was still pattering ahead of him. 

"Sounds normal to me," he said, but Jane put a hand on his arm. She had presided over many of the crises Hutch had been obliged to live through over the past few weeks, and she knew the bravado was brittle. 

His heart bounced off his ribs and made him feel sick. 

"A really tough day," she repeated. 

Hutch felt a combustible mixture of fear and aggression spill out of him. "OK, why didn't you call me?" 

Jane's eyes flicked to the other nurse and back to Hutch. They had fought a few battles standing here. Amongst many others things, Hutch had discovered he did not do helpless very well. If at all. 

"It's been busy," she said quietly. "Lots of action. But we never got to that point." 

Seemed to Hutch they were nearly always at _that point._ He still believed utterly in his own ability to make things better just by being here but he had found that the clinical staff did not always agree. 

"Tomorrow should be easier," said the other nurse. "Leave the magazines. We'll pass them on." It was clearly very straightforward in her eyes. She was exhibiting the prickly protectiveness of her patient that Hutch had found to be endemic in here, especially towards him, and he did not feel up to staging his traditional fight for ownership of the man in room 611. Not tonight. 

This time yesterday he had left his partner sitting up playing children's card games with one of the orderlies. Croaky-voiced, and the color of washed-out dough, but sitting up. Since then Hutch had successfully negotiated tonight's much-planned first date with Belinda from the D.A.'s office, which everyone concerned felt he thoroughly deserved. Give yourself a break, they all said. Rough couple of months, Hutchinson. Take a little time out. Even Starsky had said it in his croaky voice, although the actual wording of his advice had been a little more robust. Downright fruity even. 

Yeah, so I deserve it, Hutch thought, even if it doesn't solve the problem of who the hell was going to give Starsky a break. 

"No," he said, finding that he was bristling in spite of himself. "I'll take them. I need to see him." 

This time Jane did not say, as she had done in the past, "It's not about you." She had discovered things as well. Like not under-estimating the tenacity with which the blond party could drag their problem patient from disaster to hope. She obviously did not feel like fighting tonight either. 

"OK, but like I said... you need to take it easy. If he's asleep, don't disturb him. If he's awake, he's not up to chatting." 

Hutch got down the corridor at a lick, anxiety snapping at his heels, but slowed right down at 611 and got both hands to the door-knob, gripping the magazines to his ribs with an elbow. He turned it click by click, like he was a master safe-cracker. 

Inside, the room was hot. The heat was up and the lights were dimmed right down, the blinds drawn. Hutch stepped in quietly and eased the door shut behind him. The occupant of the bed appeared to be asleep and did not stir. Hutch walked across and laid the magazines down on the shelf. Then he stood and took a good look. 

It was hard not to feel that familiar whoosh of pain, the plunging despair that Starsky still seemed so unlike himself. The rigors of his day were written all over his features. In normal, healthy repose he gave the impression that he might smile at any moment. Right now he appeared to be waiting for something unpleasant to happen, his face a mask of uncertainty. Like he had just shut his eyes in the vain hope of finding some respite from whatever was haunting him. But since he was asleep, and that was what they wanted, Hutch decided he should probably just creep out again. After standing there staring for a while, he suddenly remembered Belinda. 

"Sorry, Starsk," he whispered, "gotta go," and then jumped. 

Starsky's eyes flew open as if he had startled himself awake. His limbs moved restlessly under the sheet. 

"Hutch," he said in that same croaky voice, fainter than yesterday. 

"Sssshhh, yes, I'm here." 

"Hutch," Starsky said again, fixing the blurry shape with difficulty. "I'm full of holes." 

Hutch nearly laughed. "You don't say, Gordo. But you have to go to sleep now." He spoke slowly and softly, trying to close down any conversation, but Starsky came back at him. 

"They're blacking out the windows. Something's coming in." 

"No, no... everything's alright here. You just need some rest." 

Starsky's eyes widened in irritation. "You're no help," he wheezed. "What's the time?" 

Puzzled, Hutch glanced at his watch. "Well, it's... it's nearly eight o'clock, buddy." 

"Is it still cold out?" 

"Uh... no... it's kinda warm actually." 

"I didn't get much done," Starsky said, his voice earnest. 

Hutch struggled to keep up. "OK," he said uncertainly. "You're worn out and a little crazy." 

"You seen the holes, Hutch?" 

Only in my nightmares, Hutch thought. He decided to sit down. 

"Listen, Starsk. They told me you were a little tired. Why don't you go on back to sleep." 

Starsky's eyes obediently fell shut, but the restless moving of the limbs did not cease. He seemed to be trying to crawl out of his own skin. The canula in his left arm jerked and pulled taut. 

"Fuck that hurts," Starsky said, opening his eyes again immediately. "Can we take this one out?" His right hand moved across as if to grasp it. 

Hutch caught hold of the hand, feeling bad at the look his partner gave him. "Let's leave it alone," he said. "You don't want another hole, do you?" 

"Don't know when breakfast is," Starsky said moodily, looking at his hand still enclosed within Hutch's. "Can't tell what time it is... with the windows like this." His eyes groped up. "Help me, Hutch. So tired." 

"I know." Hutch brought in his other hand and made a little cocoon. He could feel Starsky tensing and moved the chair in closer, sliding it with his butt, and resting his elbows and forearms on the bed. "Is this comfortable, Starsk? Your arm still hurt?" 

"Arm," Starsky said. "Head. Legs. Teeth." 

"Teeth?" echoed Hutch. "Your teeth hurt?" 

Starsky took a breath. It sounded like the kind of breath taken in the middle of a fit of sobbing. "What's going on?" he asked. "Why you here?" 

"It's Friday and I'm visiting you, dummy," said Hutch. 

"Hutch." 

"Yup... here I am. Close your eyes." 

"Hutch." 

"Ssshhh. It's OK." 

The door opened and the unfamiliar nurse poked her head in. "Your date's come up to find you," she said. "You want to let me take over?" 

Hutch looked down at his hands folded around Starsky. The nurse had come right in and stood next to them. 

"It's alright," she said. "You go on and have a good night out." 

Up until a few minutes ago Hutch had been, at last, more out there than in here. He needed this, he knew it. Something of his own -- wine across a candlelit table and tales to tell Starsky in the morning. The most exciting thing Starsky had had to drink over the last month was gatorade \-- and that had made him sick as a dog. The vague anticipation Hutch had felt on waking this morning had built up during the day to something more like happiness. That old thing. 

"Blinda..." Starsky said, and then added, somewhat obscurely, "and her briefcase." 

Hutch nodded anyway. Belinda with the cinched-in waist and orange-blossom scent. Belinda, who he believed might rob him of his appetite and cause him to write soulful songs. Belinda, who certainly never carried a briefcase. 

"Gwon then." Starsky pulled his hand to get it free but found that Hutch would not let go. 

"Problem is," Hutch said to the nurse, "he's full of holes. Can you go tell the lady I'll be another five minutes?" 

"She said the table's booked for ten minutes ago." 

Belinda took no prisoners, and knowing it might ordinarily have set Hutch's heartrate skittering over cobblestones. 

"Another five," he said. "We're doing good in here." 

The nurse looked sceptical. She fixed the patient's drifting eyes. "You promised you'd go to sleep, David. Your friend needs to go." 

"I need to stay," Hutch contradicted her. 

"Hutch," said Starsky, his voice slurry now. "Why you here?" 

"OK," said the nurse, seeing before her the tenacity about which Jane had warned her. "Another five." 

She went out and shut the door. 

Hutch said nothing. He looked at the darkening sky visible under the blind, the cocktail of electrolytes swinging gently into Starsky's elbow, then at those overloaded, hurting eyes. He pulled the hand, still in his own, gently towards him across the bed. 

"Were you there?" Starsky asked. 

"What you thinking of now, huh? Was I where?" 

"Back there. On the ground." 

"Starsk... I really think you need to let that go for now." 

"All those holes," Starsky murmured. "And all that thunder. Waking up in here stinks." 

"Which is why you need to sleep, so we can get you out. I just want to see you standing up with a quarterpounder stuffed in your face, Star. Not lying here fading away like some character in the opera." 

"TV repair guy," Starsky said. 

"Hello?" 

Starsky looked irritated again, as if Hutch was deliberately trying not to understand him. "Guy in the opera," he said. "Keeps closing the curtains." 

Hutch tried to beat back the panic he suddenly felt, the idea that perhaps Starsky was losing it permanently. All this surgery, all these procedures and chemicals, the shock and the trauma... perhaps he wasn't going to come back from this. 

"Sss-ky," Starsky stuttered. Hutch shook his head at him to tell him to stop, but then had a sudden feeling that perhaps it was just that Starsky was carrying too much. 

"The sky, huh?" 

"A sus-second. Sky. Saw it... " 

"Yeah? Out the window?" 

"No..." Starsky's voice had dropped to an almost inaudible level. Hutch leaned further forward. He could feel fingernails digging into his palm. "Saw sky... felt the holes. Banged my head." 

"Didn't see you go down, Starsk." 

"Hutch." 

"I'm here." 

"Can't sleep... They've given me stuff." 

"I know it." 

"But when he comes back I'm gonna just ignore him." 

"Who's that, Starsk?" 

"The guy with the... with the... sleepy juice... TV repair guy." 

"He won't be back." 

"No?" 

"No." 

"Woke up on the ground... then I don't... banged my head." Starsky's eyes kept shutting and he kept dragging them open again. "Wasn't long ago." 

"No, not long." 

"Feel my heart, Hutch. 's gonna bust out. Turn off." 

"You're all fixed up. Nothing's going to bust out. Or turn off." But Hutch could feel Starsky's pulse thumping wildly. 

What the hell had they been giving him today? Whatever it was, he needed them to come and tell him they wouldn't be doing it again. The door opened once more, and this time it was Jane with the thermometer and blood-pressure cuff. She took everything in at once. 

"Hutch," she said. Her voice was soft. She often ditched her severity when she saw how crushed he was by all this. "Your date..." 

Hutch looked up at her and shook his head, shook away the orange-blossom scent. 

"Tell her I'll call her in the morning." 

"I promise," Starsky said anxiously. "You gwon..." but his eyes registered distress as Hutch relinquished hold of his hand and Jane moved in to get the cuff on. 

"It's alright, Starsk. I'd rather be here. Don't worry about it." 

"Still too high, David," Jane said after a few minutes. 

"Check the weather report," he replied. "All that thunder." 

"I'm going to go cancel your date then, Hutch." 

"Yeah. Say I'm really sorry." 

"I'm not sure sorry will do the trick." 

Hutch shrugged. Disappointment pooled in his stomach. The door closed once more. He looked down and saw his partner's eyes had fallen shut again and he waited for another rush of narcotic arriving to force them open. Starsky's lashes quivered. 

"There's lightning," he said, but his eyes stayed shut. 

"Uh-uh, Starsk. It's all calm out. No lightning." 

"When I wake up," Starsky said in the tone of a man talking to an idiot. "Can't hold it back. Hurts right inside, Hutch... they can't reach it." 

Hutch didn't touch him. He wanted to. He wanted to lay a hand on the white bandaging that hid all the holes, let Starsky know that he knew where they were and what they were doing to him. But he didn't, because this wasn't about him. 

"Bad day, Starsk," he said quietly. "Let it go." 

And after maybe thirty seconds he knew that Starsky was sleeping. His hands lay limp and defeated and his chest rose and fell in that shallow rhythm that was all he could manage right now. 

In the end it had been quicker than Hutch anticipated. He leaned carefully back in the chair. Four or five hours, he figured, to get Starsky over the hump. Jane and the others were here to take over, and he knew they would expect him to go catch up Belinda. And her imaginary briefcase. 

The date was still on, if he wanted it... if he deserved it. Hutch recalled that it was Starsky who had told him not to be a martyr about all this, to make sure he didn't get suckered into believing he was indispensable. That, of course, had been on a good day, when he was lucid and feisty. 

"They sure did a number on you today, Star... just as well I'm here." 

He spoke out loud, confident he would not disturb this drug-induced slumber, and that in itself was enough to make him realise that he was right and they were all wrong. For God's sake, he _was_ indispensable. 

Who else knew how to guard a door against TV repair guys and badly-behaved curtains? Must have been born to it. 

Hutch stroked his hand down Starsky's forearm. 

"'Nother Friday night in, just you and me, you big old party-pooper," he said fondly. 

Full-blown happiness had got away again, clopping off into the night on high heels. Anticipation was replaced with apprehension at how Belinda was going to react to being stood up. He suspected he might have to put the soulful songs on hold. Nevertheless, the bats were settling in the cave, leaving Hutch with one strangely calming thought. For as long as he sat here in this hot, dim little room, he knew was the only person on earth with a hope of holding back lightning. 

He shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoned the cuffs of his crisp, new shirt and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. 


End file.
